The Wolf's Call - Anthony Ryan Page 0,68

frantically to reload their weapons. By his estimation he and Alum would soon face combat with thirty outlaws or more. Whilst the Vaelin Al Sorna of popular myth would have seen scant challenge in such odds, he had never fallen victim to the folly of believing his own legend.

Vaelin’s gaze went to the naphtha pots below as a notion sprang to mind, a lesson his sister had once taught to the Volarians. “Get your children on deck,” he told the woman. “Be ready to jump to our boat when I tell you.”

She cast a bright, fearful glance at the approaching outlaws, then nodded, moving to the hatchway and calling for the children below. As she shepherded the whimpering infants to the foredeck, Vaelin climbed down into the hold to retrieve as many pots as he could carry.

“Are we to drink to our own death?” Alum enquired with a bemused grin, watching Vaelin remove the stopper from a pot. He ripped off a strip of coarse fabric from a grain sack, dousing it with a splash of naphtha before stuffing it into the pot’s spout. Spying a tongue of flame licking at a coil of rope, he held the pot to it, setting the soaked rag alight.

“I’d fancy you have the better arm for this,” he said, holding the flaming pot out to Alum.

The Moreska eyed the pot doubtfully for a second before his brows rose in comprehension. Taking it from Vaelin, he straightened from his crouch, ducked down to avoid the instant hail of crossbow bolts before rising again. Alum launched the pot into the air with a swift overhand sweep of his arm. Flame trailed from the makeshift wick as the pot arced towards the oncoming outlaws, landing squarely in the middle of the lead boat and exploding in a bright ball of yellow flame. Screams rose as the occupants thrashed in the resultant conflagration, beating at the flames that ate through clothing to the flesh beneath. Within seconds the boat was empty and adrift, the surrounding water filled with struggling men and rising smoke.

“A jackal’s cunning indeed,” Alum said in approval, holding his hand out for another pot.

They worked at a steady rhythm, Vaelin preparing the pots and the Moreska launching them with an unerring eye. He threw six in the space of a few minutes, the water off the port rail soon filled with screaming men and flaming boats. Vaelin watched the surviving two boats turn swiftly about and disappear into the smoke, the outlaws marking their departure with a plethora of shouted, rage-filled insults and a parting volley of crossbow bolts, none of which found a target.

Any sense of victory faded when Vaelin heard a clash of blades from Crab’s boat. One of the four outlaw craft that had veered off from the pack was adrift, its crew feathered with arrows and lying dead or dying. The remaining three had managed to press home their attack, a dozen outlaws scrambling onto Crab’s boat with weapons in hand. Vaelin saw Ellese deliver a solid kick to the head of one, sending him back over the side. She dodged a cleaver blow from another, the man falling dead to Nortah’s sword thrust a second later.

A warning shout rose in Vaelin’s throat as he saw a pair of outlaws leap up behind his brother, but it faded as Chien appeared at their rear. Raising her staff above her head, she twisted it, the wooden pole parting to expose a yard-long length of steel. Chien’s arm seemed to blur then, the revealed blade flickering as she sank to one knee. The two outlaws staggered back and fell, blood flowing freely from near-identical slashes to the neck.

Chien whirled about to face the stern where Vaelin could see Sehmon and Crab frantically fending off the bulk of the attackers. Sehmon had managed to kill one, his blade red down to the hilt as he parried the slashes of his enemies. The rest were kept at bay by Crab, who had armed himself with an axe, sweeping it back and forth with a speed that displayed more strength than skill.

Vaelin watched Chien leap into the midst of the surviving outlaws, her whole body seeming to blur now as her blade flickered once more. Within seconds it was over, three outlaws lying dead and the only survivor on his knees, hands empty and head bowed all the way to the deck in an obvious pose of surrender. Vaelin saw Chien’s lips move, perhaps in